Giuseppe stepped back from the table and crossed his arms over his chest, signaling that he was waiting. When there wasn’t an immediate response, when the men at the table continued to stare at him with blank faces, he looked first to Tomasino standing beside him, and then back to the bosses. “You know what?” he said. “To tell you the truth, I’m not really asking. I’m planning for this to be a very short meeting, followed by the good food I have waiting for you in the next room.” He continued, his face lighting up, “That is, if your consiglieri don’t eat it all before we get there!” Tattaglia laughed loudly, and Stracci and Cuneo offered up a pair of slight smiles. “Good,” Giuseppe said. “So, I’m saying, this is how it’s going to be. Before anyone gets pushed, all the bosses have to approve. But if anyone disagrees and would like to argue to the contrary, now is the time to speak up.” He sat down again and pulled his chair in closer to the table, the scraping sound of the chair legs muted against the tiled floor.
Mike DiMeo, burly and uncomfortable in his seat, ran his hand over the few strands of hair remaining on the very top of his head. When he spoke, his voice was gentle and refined, in startling contrast to the raw bulk of his body. “Don Mariposa,” he said, standing in his place, “I respect your great strength in New York, especially now that the LaConti family businesses have been folded into your own. But New York,” he added, his eyes lingering on Giuseppe’s, “New York, of course, is not New Jersey. Still,” he said, “anything that keeps us from killing each other like a bunch of madmen, that I support.” He paused and then tapped a finger twice on the table. “And if I support it,” he said, “you can count on the rest of New Jersey to support it.”
DiMeo sat down to a round of polite applause from all the bosses but Vito, who nonetheless seemed to be pleased by the New Jersey boss’s speech.
“Then, it’s done,” Giuseppe said, as if the applause were an official vote and the matter was resolved. “Now I have one more problem, and then we can go and eat.” He sat back in his seat. “I’ve lost a lot of income with the repeal of Prohibition,” he said. “My family has lost a lot of money—and the men complain.” He looked around the table. “I’m here to speak plainly to you and to tell you the truth. My men want war. They want to expand our businesses into your territories, all of your territories. My men, they tell me we have grown so strong, we would win such a war. They tell me it would only be a matter of time, and we could be running all of New York, downstate and up, and,” he said, looking at Mike DiMeo, “New Jersey. And then there would be money to replace the money we’ve lost to repeal.” He paused again to pull his chair in closer to the table. “There are many voices in my family that argue for this—but I say no. I don’t want this war. I say I would have the blood of too many people on my hands, the blood of friends, of some people I hold in great respect, and a few people I love. I say again, I don’t want this war—but you’re all bosses and you know how it is. If I try to go against the will of so many of my people, I won’t be boss for long. And it is because of that, also, that I have asked you here.” He stretched his open hands out over the tabletop. “I’m saying let us avoid the bloodshed and come to an agreement. You are all your own bosses, but with my strength—which I do not wish to use—I think I should be acknowledged as boss of all bosses. For that, I will be the one to judge all your disputes, and to resolve them, with force if need be.” He stared across the table at Vito. “And for that,” he said, “I should be paid. I will take a little something from all your enterprises,” he said, almost as if he were talking to Vito alone. “I will expect a percentage of all your earnings,” he said, and then turned away from Vito to the others. “A very small percentage, but from all of you. This will help me keep my people happy, and so we will avoid bloodshed.” Finished saying his piece, Giuseppe leaned back in his chair and once again folded his arms over his chest. When several tense moments passed without a word, he nodded to Tattaglia. “Phillip,” he said. “Why don’t you speak first.”
Tattaglia slapped both hands down on the table and stood to speak. “I welcome the protection of Don Mariposa,” he said. “It makes good business sense. We pay a small percentage and save the cost of fighting a war—and who could ask for a better judge in our disputes than Don Mariposa?” Dressed in a flashy pale-blue suit with a bright-yellow tie, Tattaglia tugged at his jacket, straightening it out. “I say this is a reasonable offer,” he said, and took his seat again. “I think we should be grateful to avoid this war,” he added, “a war which might have, God forbid, cost some of us our lives.”
Around the table, the bosses looked to each other, watching for reactions. Not a face at the table gave away a thing, though Anthony Stracci of Staten Island could not have been said to look happy, and Ottileo Cuneo looked slightly pained, as if some physical discomfort were bothering him.
Mariposa, at the head of the table, pointed to Vito. “Corleone,” he asked, “what do you say?”
Vito said, “What is the percentage?”
“I have a small beak,” Mariposa answered. “I ask only to wet it a little.”
“Excuse me, Signor Mariposa,” Vito said, “but I would like a little more detail. Exactly what percentage are you requiring from all of the bosses here at this table?”
“Fifteen percent,” Giuseppe said to Vito. To the others he said, “I’m asking as a man of honor and a man of business that you pay me fifteen percent of all your operations.” Turning back to Vito, he said, “I get fifteen percent of your gambling operations, of your monopoly in the olive oil business, and of all your union business, just as Tattaglia,” he said, looking to the others, “has agreed to pay fifteen percent of his woman business and his laundries.” Back to Vito, he said, “Now, is that clear enough for you, Corleone?”
“Sì,” Vito said. He folded his hands on the table and leaned toward Giuseppe. “Yes,” he repeated. “Thank you, Don Mariposa. That is very clear and I think very reasonable.” He looked to the others. “Without war,” he said to them, “without bloodshed, we will all benefit. What we save in money and men’s lives,” he added, looking to Giuseppe, “will be well worth the fifteen percent we offer to you.” To the men at the table, he said, “I think we should all agree to this, and I think we should thank Don Mariposa for solving our problems at such a small price.” Behind him, Vito heard Sonny cough and clear his throat. The men at the table looked from Vito to each other.
“Then it’s settled,” Giuseppe said, sounding more surprised than assertive. He caught his own uncertain tone quickly and recovered by barking a demand posed as a question to the rest of the bosses. “Unless someone has an objection.”
When no one spoke, Vito stood and said, “You will all forgive us for not joining you in the feast Don Mariposa has promised—but one of my sons,” he added, and put his hand over his heart, “he has to finish up a big report about our great Neapolitan mayor, the man who’s going to clean up New York and rid it of sin and corruption.” This brought a round of laughter from all the bosses but Mariposa. “I promised to help him with his report,” Vito said. He turned to Sonny and nodded toward the back door, and while Sonny went to get the door for him, Vito approached Mariposa and offered him his hand.
Giuseppe looked at Vito’s hand with suspicion, and then shook it.
“Thank you, Don Mariposa,” Vito said. “Together,” he added, looking over the table, “we will all grow rich.”
As he finished speaking, the bosses all rose from their seats and joined Vito and Mariposa to shake hands. Vito looked to Sonny, who was holding the back door open, and from Sonny’s face to Genco’s in the next room, where he was standing with a dozen others around a banquet table piled high with food and drink. Genco seemed to read something in Vito’s face. He turned to Luca, signaling with a nod that they were leaving. With Sonny, the men formed a little circle by the door and waited for Vito as he finished shaking hands and exchanging a few polite words with the rest of the bosses. Standing against the wall with his hands clasped in front
of him like all the other bodyguards, Tomasino Cinquemani stared at Luca, his face growing red and the scars under his eye redder before he turned away and calmed a little, his gaze resting on one of the portraits of the saints that lined the walls.
In the backseat of the Essex, as Richie Gatto drove through Manhattan’s streets under a steady rain, Vito placed his hat on the window shelf behind him and undid the top button on his shirt. The car was loud with an anticipatory silence, as if all the men, Sonny in the front with Richie, and Vito in the back with Genco and Luca, were waiting for someone to speak first. Vito stroked his throat and closed his eyes. He appeared troubled. When he opened his eyes again, he turned to Luca, who at that moment turned to him. Though Genco sat between them, he might as well have been invisible as the two men looked at each other, each seeming to read something in the other’s eyes.
Sonny, who had been staring out the window at the rain, spoke first. He shouted, “Ah, for Christ’s sake!” startling everyone in the car but Luca, who alone didn’t flinch. “Pop!” he said, and he twisted around so that he was kneeling as he looked into the back of the car. “I can’t believe we took that crap from Mariposa! That fuckin’ ciucc’! We’re paying him fifteen percent?”
“Santino,” Vito said, and he laughed slightly. It was as if Sonny’s outburst had dispelled the ominous mood that had settled over everyone. “Sonny,” he said, “sit still and be quiet. Unless someone asks you to speak, you have no voice here.”
Sonny let his head drop dramatically to his chest. He clasped his hands behind his neck.
Genco said, “You don’t understand these things yet, Sonny.” When Sonny nodded without looking up, Genco said to Vito, “Joe wants fifteen percent?”
“He’s to take fifteen percent of everyone’s business, and for this,” Vito said to Genco, “he promises us there will be no war.”
Genco pressed his hands together, palm to palm. “What was the look on their faces,” he asked, “when Joe told them what they had to pay?”
“They don’t like it,” Vito said, as if that was of course how they’d respond, “but they know it’s cheaper than a war.”
“They’re scared,” Luca said, with disgust for all the bosses that had been gathered together in that room.
“But still they don’t like it,” Genco said, “and that’s good for us.”
Vito smacked Sonny lightly on the head, telling him to straighten up and pay attention. Sonny lifted his head, looked into the back of the car, and then folded his arms over his chest and was quiet, mimicking Luca.
“Mariposa is greedy,” Vito said to everyone. “That, all the bosses know. When he comes after us, they’ll know it’s only a matter of time before he goes after them.”
“I agree,” Genco said, “and this too is in our favor.”
“For now,” Vito said, “we’ll pay the fifteen percent.” He looked out the front window, over Sonny’s head. “In the meantime,” he went on, “we continue to get ready. We can still use more politicians and cops on the payroll.”
“Mannagg’!” Genco said. “Vito. We’re already paying too many people. Some state senator asked me for three grand last week. I told him no! Three grand! V’fancul’!”
“Call him back,” Vito said, softly, as if he was suddenly tired, “and tell him yes. Tell him Vito Corleone insisted we show our friendship.”
“But, Vito,” Genco said, and then was silenced when Vito raised his hand, ending the discussion.
“The more cops and judges we have on our payroll, the stronger we are, and I’m willing to show friendship first.”
“Madon’!” Genco said, giving up the argument, “half of what we take in we pay out again.”
“In the long run,” Vito said, “trust me, Genco, that will be our greatest strength.” When Genco only sighed and then was silent, Vito turned to Sonny. “We agreed to pay the fifteen percent,” he said, going all the way back in the conversation to Sonny’s initial objection, “because it doesn’t matter, Santino. Mariposa called this meeting hoping I would object. He wanted me to refuse. Then, when he comes after us, the rest of the families will get the message.” Vito spoke as if he were Mariposa, giving him a whiny voice, “I had no choice! The Corleones wouldn’t go along!”
Genco added, joining Vito, speaking as if he was Mariposa talking to the other bosses, “Pay the fifteen percent or we’ll wipe you out, like the Corleone family.”
“But I don’t get it,” Sonny said. “Why doesn’t it matter if we go along or not?”
“Because whether or not we pay or we don’t pay,” Genco said, “Joe’s still coming after us. We’re making a lot of money now, our family. We were never dependent on liquor money. Mariposa looks at us, Sonny, and he sees easy pickings.”
Sonny opened his hands and said, “I still don’t get it.”
Luca Brasi, without looking at Sonny, said, “Don Corleone is a—brilliant man, Santino. You should—listen more closely.”
Sonny seemed taken aback by Luca’s tone, which was somehow ominous. He tried to catch Brasi’s eye, but Luca appeared to have drifted away again into his own thoughts.
Vito said, “We’re buying time, Santino. We need more time to get ready.”
“Plus,” Genco said to Sonny, “now that your father has agreed to pay the percentage, when Mariposa comes at us, after making this agreement with us, he loses respect. He’s seen as a man whose word can’t be trusted. These things are important, Sonny,” Genco added. “You’ll learn.”
Sonny spun around and dropped down in his seat. He said, looking out the front window at the rain, “Can I ask one more question, Consigliere?” When Genco didn’t say no, Sonny asked, his frustration evident, “Again, how do we know for sure that Mariposa is coming after us whether or not we pay up?”
Behind him, out of Sonny’s sight, Genco looked to Vito and shook his head.
Vito said, “Here’s a lesson for you, Sonny: Don’t write if you can talk, don’t talk if you can nod your head, don’t nod your head if you don’t have to.”
In the backseat, Genco looked at Vito with a smile.
Sonny, in the front seat, shrugged and was quiet.
Cork lay on his back in the fading light of a rainy spring day with Caitlin stretched out on top of him asleep, her head pressed into his neck, her feet resting on his hips. He had one arm folded under the back of his head and the other resting on the child’s shoulder, where he had patted her to sleep after reading to her, for the hundredth time, the story of Connla and the Fairy Maiden, a tale out of one of his father’s old books, a leather-bound, gilt-edged collection of stories that lay beside him now on Caitlin’s narrow bed. Carefully, he turned on his side and slid Caitlin onto the sheets, her head, surrounded by a nimbus of sandy blond hair, resting on a lumpy pillow. Outside, a key turned in the lock and the kitchen door opened just as he pulled a checkered quilt of farm animals over Caitlin’s shoulders. He waited beside his sleeping niece for a minute in the darkening room and listened to Eileen as she moved about the kitchen.
Cork had been a child himself in this apartment. He’d been so young when the flu took both his parents that he had few memories of them—but he remembered clearly the excitement of moving into these rooms with Eileen. He had his seventh birthday in the kitchen. Eileen, who must have then been about his age now, strung red and yellow crepe-paper banners across the ceiling and invited every kid on the block. She had just taken the bakery job with Mrs. McConaughey, who seemed ancient to him even then. He remembered Eileen shouting A three-bedroom with a living room and kitchen! and thinking to himself that they were moving into a palace—which the apartment was compared to the cramped rooms they’d been sharing in the houses of distant relatives while Eileen finished high school, to the displeasure of at least a few of those relatives. He’d grown up in this apartment and moved out himself only when he finished high school and started pulling jobs with Sonny. Now that was over, and Murray’d told him to stay clear of the Irish. Cork looked around his
old bedroom and found the feel of the place comforting—the familiar street sounds beyond the window, the pleasant noise of Eileen puttering through the rooms. From the floor beside Caitlin’s bed, he picked up Boo, her poor tattered giraffe, and placed it in her arms.
He found Eileen at the sink finishing up a few dishes. “I was just thinking about old Mrs. McConaughey,” he said, and he pulled up a seat at the table. “Is she still going?”
“Is she still alive?” Eileen said, as if surprised by the question. She turned around, drying her hands on a bright-green dish towel. “Sure,” she said, “doesn’t she still send me cards twice a year on Easter and Christmas? She’s a saint, the woman is.”
“She was funny,” Cork said. “She always had a riddle for me.” He paused, remembering the old woman, and then added, “You think I might get a cup of coffee as reimbursement for my babysitting services?”
“You might,” Eileen said, and went about putting up the coffee.
“I remember the big party we had for her here,” Cork said, returning to the subject of Mrs. McConaughey.
“Are you feeling nostalgic, then?” Eileen asked, with her back to him. “I can’t recall you ever mentioning Mrs. McConaughey before.”
“I suppose I am,” Cork said. “A little anyway.” He took in the kitchen ceiling, remembering the bright crepe-paper banners of his seventh birthday. The party for Mrs. McConaughey had been to celebrate her retirement and her impending return home, to Ireland. Eileen and Jimmy had just bought the bakery from her. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, “with all the babysitting I do for Caitlin, I might as well be living here again.”